


Learning to Move on

by rememberednoah



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Angst, Art, Artist Steve Rogers, Cussing, Dogs, Drawing, Drunk Texting, Drunkenness, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, I'm Bad At Tagging, I'm Bad At Titles, M/M, Painting, Sketches, Texting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-11
Updated: 2015-11-11
Packaged: 2018-05-01 03:24:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,503
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5190320
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rememberednoah/pseuds/rememberednoah
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Steve’s life had been perfect. He had the perfect girlfriend. He had the perfect dog. He had a perfect apartment. As a matter of fact, even his job had been going great, but then everything crashed down around him. He lost the perfect girlfriend and that spiraled his life out of control. It was not until one drunken night, where he unknowingly meets a kind stranger, that his life begins to look up.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Learning to Move on

**Author's Note:**

> Based on [this](http://misplacedstraightjacket.tumblr.com/post/132999045614/so-like-get-this-a-stucky-au-where-steve-and-peggy) tumblr prompt I received a million years ago. I postponed writing this fic cause I knew it was going to turn out into this long monstrosity I have written, but inspo struck me during the weekend and so I wrote it. Be warned: There’s lots of cussing in this. So, if you’re not cool with that then this isn’t the fic for you.

It was never supposed to end that way. Hell, it wasn't supposed to have ended at all. It had been starting. Everything in Steve's life was finally falling into place perfectly, but then it wasn't. The illusion was crushed. Steve's 'happily ever after' was torn from him without warning. He fell back into square one. Worse, his whole life fell apart. 

Peggy Carter, the woman Steve was going to _propose_ to, was not supposed to die before he could even ask her the question. She was not supposed to die before their ‘happily ever after’ could begin. 

But let's rewind for a moment and go back, so that Steve's utter fall from grace, for that's how he felt it to be, can be made clear.

**\- - -**  


Steve met Peggy back when he was a struggling artist. He was not starving, he kept about three more jobs apart from the one that involved what he actually loved, but he had not yet reached the pinnacle of his career. He truly became a renowned artist once he met Peggy because anyone who was _anyone_ knew who Margaret “Peggy” Carter was. Her opinion was highly esteemed, although her face was known only by a select few. Her taste was impeccable and because of this every artist craving to be known thirsted for her attention. The night Steve met her, on his quaint little gallery opening, Peggy Carter bought one of his paintings and made no attempt to hide who she truly was.

Fast forward to two years and a half later and Steve was more popular in that which he loved, his art, than he had ever imagined he would be. Not only that, but he had the beautiful Peggy Carter by his side. They had their own apartment which was not overly large, but had enough walls to hang the tremendous amount of art they owned. The two of them even had a small dog. It was a mutt, its breed indiscernible, but it was positively the cutest dog either of them had ever seen. They loved it more than anything in the world and named him Echo.

Their careers were in full blast. Everyone adored them and they had become a rather powerful duo. Steve was happy enough that he even went out to buy a ring to propose to Peggy after they had been together for nearly three years. He had planned the whole event to perfection. It was going to be grand and utterly spectacular. . . But then it wasn't. 

On the very night Steve was going to propose, Peggy Carter was hit by a drunk driver. She never made it to dinner and Steve, well, Steve was never quite the same after that.

**\- - -**  


The evening of Peggy Carter's funeral there was not one soul who loved her missing. Everyone she had loved and who had loved her was there and Steve was no exception. He stood before the coffin, hands balled into fists shoved into the pockets of his black coat. It was a habit Peggy had hated and Steve had never managed to get rid of. Now, with her missing, her body in a grand wooden box that would be lowered into the ground, Steve didn't have the strength to care. He was wrecked. His heart had been, for the second time in his life, ripped out of his chest and flung onto the floor before it was stepped on repeatedly. He felt both hollow and consumed with grief.

The eyes that did not rest on the sleek black coffin were on Steve Rogers. None there had ever seen the blonde look as torn and distraught as he did then. He had always been a ray of sunshine, smiling and laughing, as radiant as the sun itself. Now that light was gone. With his hands shoved deep into his pockets, he stood brooding.

Sam Wilson, his best friend, stood by his side. He kept stealing glances at his friend, but Steve's expression grew only more stony when he felt the glances. The blonde kept his blue eyes trained fiercely on the coffin, refusing to acknowledge anyone or speak at all. He had planned a speech, words he would share with all those there with him, but he swallowed the words. He felt the paper that held the words scratching against one of his fists and he resigned even more fiercely to say nothing. He did not want to fall apart in front of all those there. He knew he should feel comforted by their presence, but he felt caged. 

Steve had the distinct feeling that someone might be attempting to speak to him, but he ignored them. He kept staring straight at the coffin and, eventually, it began to be lowered into the hole that had been created for it. Steve watched its slow descent, feeling hot tears burning down his cheeks. The moment it disappeared from plain sight he took the paper in his pocket and threw it into the hole. He was pretty sure he heard a sound of complaint from Sam, but it was too late. The paper was already at the bottom and with it Steve's last hope of saying anything to the people there. 

With that last act done, he looked up from the grave and at the crowd surrounding him. The sight of all the people there, clad in black, made Steve feel sick. He felt even more tears burn in his eyes and walked away from the crowd before he felt the urge to sob while all those people watched. He was sure plenty of them called out to him, but he did not care one bit. The blonde simply kept walking and walking until he found his car. He was not sure how he had even had the will to drive there, nor how he would find the strength to drive _out_ , but he knew he had to. 

He fished the keys of the car from the pockets of his black dress pants and with trembling fingers opened the door to his car. He was about to close the door when it was met with resistance. It was only then that Steve heard the voice. It repeated his name over and over again. "Steve. Steve. Hey, Steve. Listen to me. Steve Rogers, are you listening?" 

Steve finally looked up and met the eyes of his friend. It was obvious then that it could only be one person: Sam Wilson. His friend looked at him earnestly and with kindness. He extended his hand out, palm up, and motioned for the keys of the car. "At the very least let me drive you home. If you're going to go, I at least want to make sure you make it home safe." 

The word 'home' left a sharp pang in Steve's chest. What was 'home' now? The apartment he used to share with Peggy? Could that still be considered home when one of its most vital members was missing? How had he even managed to go into the place without falling apart? It was full of _them_. StevePeggy. StevePeggy. StevePeggy. That apartment wasn't his. It was _theirs_. 

Steve's hands began to shake even more violently. He felt as he began to lose his grip on himself and reality seemed to slow all around him. Reluctantly, he handed over his car keys to Sam. The other man sighed visibly and took the keys without hesitation. Steve moved over to the other side of the car and sat down on the passenger's side. He did not notice when Sam turned on the car. He did not even notice when Sam began to drive. 

The drive to Steve's apartment was silent (or at least that was how the blonde perceived it to be). Steve was not in any mood to speak, so he merely stared out the window while his friend drove. It felt like both an eternity and seconds before Sam was parking the car and leading Steve up to his apartment. The blonde moved automatically, not really registering what he did, and subconsciously began to search for the keys to his apartment. Once he found them, he handed them over to Sam who opened the door smoothly and waited for Steve to step inside. 

The inside of what Steve was supposed to call _home_ felt oppressing. The walls, with their ever familiar art and framed pictures of himself and Peggy, made Steve want to puke. He tore his eyes away from the walls and walked toward his room. At some point, he began shedding his clothes, so that by the time he was in his room he wore only his undershirt and his boxers. He really didn't care about Sam seeing him, it didn't _matter_ , and it was nothing Sam had not seen before. The blonde flung himself onto the bed and grabbed one of the pillows. He hugged it to his chest and buried his face into it. He let out a strangled cry, a mix of a scream and a sob, and felt his body tremble with the strength of his pain. He hugged the pillow even tighter, nearly smothering himself, and began to shake with sobs. 

Steve's pain felt impossible, unbearable, and unreal. The two women he had loved most in his life, his mother and his beautiful Peggy, gone forever. How was he supposed to bear the pain? It had taken him what felt like an eternity to find someone to love, spend the rest of his life with, someone not only he liked but that his mother would have liked as well, and all for what? For it to end in this shit? It was all bullshit. Steve called goddamned _bullshit_. 

At some point, Steve must have fallen asleep in exhaustion. When he woke, he was still in the room that reminded him too much of Peggy, but there was someone there with him. It took Steve a moment to find the will to actively search out the person in his apartment and it turned out to be Sam. The other man walked over to him and handed him the mug he had been holding. Steve took it with a silent whisper of thanks and brought it to his lips. Once he took a sip of it did he recognize it was tea. He was not sure what flavor it was, but it was soothing and he felt himself relax in his place on the bed. He wrapped all the blankets on the bed tightly around himself and continued to sip the warm tea. 

Once he had finished the warm drink, he set the mug on the nightstand to his right and looked over at his friend. Sam stood up and grabbed the mug from the nightstand. He gave Steve a look before he said, "Do you need me to stay with you? I don't want you to lose yourself in your grief. If you need me to, I will stay for as long as you want." 

"You don't have to do that," Steve lied. He wanted his friend there, but at the same time he didn't want Sam to see him wallow in his own misery. It wouldn't help anyone, not really. 

"Are you sure?" Sam asked, giving Steve the chance to change his mind, but the blonde didn't. 

Steve shook his head and lied, "I'll be fine on my own." 

Sam did not argue with the blonde. He nodded sadly and left Steve alone in his apartment with Echo as his only company. Steve called his dog onto the bed and wrapped his arms around the tiny frame of his pet. He openly wept. He felt as his ghosts plagued him in the loneliness. He did not even have the strength to fight.

**\- - -**

A year and a half had passed since Steve lost Peggy, but the wound still felt fresh and sensitive. He hadn't dated, had tried to but to no avail, and his art promptly turned to shit. People still bought his art because even after a year and a half his name still carried some worth, but it all looked like a pile of boiling shit to Steve. It probably produced that feeling because he was too depressed to paint or draw anything he usually enjoyed. Everything was dark and moody colors that seemed perfectly fitted for a funeral home. It was all depressing and disgusting and Steve hated it and himself for making it. Still, he couldn't help but pick up a pencil or a paint brush. The urge to do what had always made him feel better, art, was still there if skewered and strange.

Steve felt, genuinely, like he should have gotten his shit together by now, but he could not manage to do so. Hell, he still texted Peggy's old number when he was feeling like utter shit. It was a habit he had formed a couple of months after her death and he had not managed to let go of it. He felt a sort of relief when he texted her number even though she could not reply. As a matter of fact, that's what he felt like doing in that moment. He wasn't sure if doing that was at all healthy, but he no longer cared. 

He was at a bar, nursing a beer, and staring glumly into the liquid. He was not sure how much he had drunk already. He lost count on five. After that one it was just blank. He kept staring at the golden liquid and after a while took another drink from it because fuck it. Fuck it all. **Fuck it. Fuck it. Fuck it.**

He felt his hands begin to shake and his vision blurred as he turned his head to the side quickly when he heard a crash. He was unable to find the source of the sound and simply shook his head. He felt a sense of fog enveloping him and tried to shake it out, but it only managed to get worse. He groaned and fumbled for his phone in his pocket. He spent a good fifteen minutes trying to grab it. His hands kept shaking and he couldn't see for shit and he almost about gave up on the task, but he _needed_ to text Peggy. 

Somehow, he managed to find her name and type out a message. The text he sent was meant to have read: **Today has been shit**. But the message he sent was probably nearly indiscernible. 

He placed the phone on the table once he sent the message and downed the rest of his beer. He asked for another one and one after that. By the time Steve's phone vibrated on the table, he had forgotten he had sent a message at all. He clumsily grabbed it and unlocked the screen. His heart nearly stopped beating in his chest as he saw that he had received a text from Peggy. _Peggy_ had texted him back. 

He struggled for some time to read the message, but at some point it became clear to him. **What happened? How are you?**

Steve typed a reply quickly, one that was probably not as clear as the idea he had in his head. **Eveyrhting. All and nothign. Shit.**

He then sent Peggy another text. **Ou shod call me pathetic Steve. That's wat I am. Pahetic.**

The blonde set the phone down on the table and banged his head gently and repeatedly against the wooden surface. What was his life turning into? He was becoming a useless no one. 

The phone vibrated against the table again. He had much trouble looking at the reply. **You're not pathetic, Steve. Don't say that. You're a great person and it's only a rough patch you're going through.**

Steve giggled at that. He giggled because it was absurd. A rough patch? More like a precipice he had fallen into which he struggled to crawl out of. He wasn't sure he _could_ crawl out of it. **Ruh, pat? I lost ou, Peggy. Tha not rug, more like shaterin.**

**You'll be okay, Steve. You're going to be okay.** Peggy answered and Steve wanted to flung his phone against a wall. He was going to be sick. He was not going to be 'okay'. 

**How?** Was all Steve could manage to reply before he slipped the phone into his pocket and all at once fell asleep with his head on the table before him.

**\- - -**

The following morning, Steve somehow managed to wake up in his apartment. He was woken by the wet kisses of his dog, Echo, who was trying frantically to rise him. Steve groaned, head pounding, and rolled onto his side. He felt his stomach churn painfully and released another groan. Echo continued to try to wake him, cheer him up, but Steve felt like utter and complete shit.

The blonde tried to get on his feet, but only managed to fall ungracefully on the floor and decided to stay there. He let out a pained moan and stayed on the floor of his room for a short while until Echo began to lick him relentlessly once more. Steve sighed exasperated and half crawled half dragged himself to the bathroom. Once in there, he proceeded to puke a couple of times until he felt like there was nothing else his body could release. With that done, he wiped his face and managed to drag himself onto his feet to wash his face and mouth. 

After a few hours of pure misery and trying to consume some sort of food, Steve plopped down on his couch in the living room. He found his phone, _somewhere_ , and prepared to send a text to Sam. Just when he opened up his previous conversations, he saw Peggy at the top of the list. He heaved in a breath, panic seizing him, and he tapped on the conversation. The reality of what had happened the previous night all slapped him on the face with full force. 

He first read the texts he vaguely remembered and then found other ones, ones he must have received when he blacked out. They all sounded concerned, more than they should have been, and clearly not written by Peggy. It had never been Peggy texting him. She was still gone. Her phone number must have now belonged to someone else. That new loss, the knowledge that he could no longer even text the number to feel as if he were somehow communicating with her, burned more than it should have. 

The messages he had not read were clearly full of worry: **Steve, you will be able to move on. It's going to be okay. You're gonna feel like yourself again.**

But then, after not having received a reply, the texts continued. 

**Steve?**

**Steve are you there?**

**Are you okay?**

**Please tell me you didn't black out!**

**Did you make it home safe? Just let me know if you made it home safe.**

**I know you must be pretty confused right now but I need to know you're okay to properly rest.**

**This doesn't give me a good feeling. Please tell me you're okay.**

Steve felt oddly comforted by the kindness and concern of the stranger. He was sure the person had no reason to bother with feeling worry over him, but the person had. Just that thought made Steve feel like it was his duty to reply to this poor soul that had fretted over his well-being for hours and had gotten no reply. 

**I'm fine. Made it home safe. Sorry about last night. Thanks for watching out for me as best you could.**

 

The reply was nearly instantaneous. **Holy shit. Thank God you're okay. I'd genuinely thought I'd lost you there, buddy. I'm Bucky btw.**

 **Hey, Bucky. It's me, Pathetic Steve, only now I'm not drunk. More like about to pass out from my pounding head.**

Bucky’s answer came only a few seconds afterward. Steve couldn't help but smile yet at the same time feel pained by the words of the stranger. **You're not pathetic, Steve. I meant what I said last night. Whatever stuff you're going through, it's gonna get better.**

 **I hope you're right. Anyway. Thanks for having my back last night. You don't even know who I am and you bothered to give a damn about my well-being. That was nice.** Steve almost did not send the text, but he decided he should. Who would it hurt? He was never going to have a conversation with that guy again, so it really couldn't be more embarrassing than the shit he'd sent the previous night. 

**No problem. Hope everything works out for you in the end, Steve.**

And that was that. Those were the last words Steve got from the stranger he had mistaken as Peggy in his drunken stupor.

**\- - -**

A couple of weeks went by, spent in relatively as much misery as the ones before that, and Steve lay on the couch of his living room. From his fingers dangled a bottle of beer, his mind unsure if he should take another drink or not, and he started off at the ceiling. The flat screen a few feet before him was on, playing either a movie or a TV series, Steve couldn’t remember, but he wasn’t paying it any attention. As a matter of fact, he was supposed to be at one of his gallery openings. He'd made a bunch of crappy paintings and they would go on sale that night, but he couldn't be bothered to attend the opening. He didn't _care_ if they sold or not. He'd texted Sam and told him he wasn't going. He had graciously accepted to step in as a substitution for Steve (not the first time it had happened and possibly not the last it would).

Steve didn't feel particularly bad about not going. Just three weeks prior he had attended various gallery openings for other artists and had made an attempt to socialize and plaster onto his face a pleasant smile. He thought he convinced the guests for the most part that he was okay. Steve couldn't have really given less of a fuck of what they thought, though. What made things worse was that he still got sympathetic glances now and again from those who asked him if he was dating again and his answer was a no. They all knew about Peggy and they all now knew Steve was a lonely fuck without her. 

Echo padded over to his side before he could wallow deeper into self-pitying thoughts and licked over his fingers and the bottom of the beer bottle. Steve sighed and set the bottle down on the floor to pick up his small dog and place him on his chest. The dog seemed content with this and began to lick Steve's jaw and attempted to snuggle closer against Steve's palm. "Okay, Echo. I get it. Calm down." 

Steve petted his dog for a little while before pulling out his phone from one of his pockets. He unlocked the screen and before he could convince himself otherwise, looked up the contact that was still saved as Peggy. He knew it wasn't Peggy and he knew he shouldn't probably bother a stranger who most likely did not need to be bothered, but he decided he would. So he sent out a simple: **Hey**

The reply came a few minutes later. It took Steve a moment to even realize he'd gotten a message because he'd been busy petting his dog and staring dazedly at the screen of the TV wondering if the building shown on the screen would be better as a drawing or a painting or just a simple sketch to keep his hands busy. 

**Hi, Steve.**

**How are you doing?** Steve sent out, feeling awkward and stupid, but deciding to stubbornly power through. He went back to staring at the screen of his TV and contemplated the idea of standing up to pick up a sketch pad or his tablet. 

**Ridiculous. My friend sent me all the way to this art gallery opening and I feel like an idiot. Not only did I have to use the most expensive suit I own, I still feel underdressed. The art here is expensive as fuck.**

Then, as an after-thought, Bucky texted. **It's really good art though. So there's that.**

Steve smiled warmly and briefly wondered if the stranger could possibly be at the art gallery _he_ was supposed to be at. He doubted it highly. There wasn't a chance, not really. **What does the art look like? Anything that grabs your attention?**

The reply came a few minutes later. By then Steve had already sat up and grabbed his tablet to start about the millionth drawing he had of his dog. The dog had found a nice little resting place on the floor and was sleeping peacefully. 

**It's all pretty sad if I'm being honest. All blues and grays. It's good though. Everything I like is too expensive for me to ever take home. Not that my place is even big enough for some of the pieces here.**

Steve laughed at that and typed out quickly: **Is your friend at least keeping you company? Or did they leave you all by yourself?**

**That's the sick part, Steve! She left me all by myself! She went off to chat with some people who looked wealthy and untouchable and left me all on my own.**

Steve choked on a laugh and shook his head. **Sucks to be you, Bucky.**

**What about you, Steve? What are you doing?**

**Drawing my dog. I was supposed to be somewhere important, but I stayed in for the sole purpose of drawing my dog.**

**Ha! Highly doubt that. What's the dog's name?**

**Echo. He's the best model I got. Cheapest one too. Hardly moves since he loves sleeping so much AND doesn't need to take breaks. He's perfect.**

**I've found myself a dog lover, I see. And an artist (as if I didn't have my full of them by now with this gallery).**

**Ain't nothin' wrong with being an artist!**

**You make any money with your art?**

**More than I ever thought I would.**

**Then you're luckier than most.**

Steve hesitated before he replied to that. He sat staring at the screen of his phone for a few seconds after receiving that message. He wondered what he could say to that. Bucky wasn't _wrong_ , not really. 

**In some ways I am luckier, in other ways not so much. Just like everyone.**

**You're right about that. I gotta leave you now, Steve. My friend is telling me to put my "goddamned ridiculous phone away or so help me god I will throw it out a window". I have no choice but to listen to her.**

**Have a nice night, Bucky**

**Same to you, Steve**

Steve put his phone away after receiving that message and picked up his tablet once more. He went on to continue the drawing he was making of his dog and spent most of the night in comfortable silence. 

**

\- - - 

**

It was a week later, at about three in the morning, when Steve got a new text from Bucky. The blonde sat on the kitchen counter looking like the perfect image of a sleepless night and too much restless energy to do anything else but paint. His blonde hair was disheveled atop his head, a pencil was stuck behind his ear while he chewed absently on the end of his paint brush and he wore only his boxers. Before him stood a rather large, and incomplete, canvas and he jumped when he heard the phone vibrate on the counter by his side. 

He absently put the paint brush aside and picked up his phone. He knew his fingers were probably wet with paint, but he didn't really care. He unlocked the screen and was surprised to find a text from Bucky. 

**Please tell me you're awake right now.**

Steve blinked in confusion for a few seconds before he shrugged off his confusion and answered the message. **You're in luck, Bucky. I'm awake. What's up?**

**Good. Now tell me why I'm sitting on my bed with a carton of ice cream, eating directly from it as if someone has dumped me. No one has dumped me, Steve. I wasn't even dating anyone. Why do I feel like shit?**

That message was accompanied by a picture of a carton of chocolate ice cream which was already half-way eaten. Steve wasn't sure if he should ask if Bucky had eaten all of that in one sitting. Not that he was in a place to judge. He was pretty sure he'd done that and worse in the first months after losing Peggy. Just thinking about her name brought a pang to Steve's chest. He stared over at the canvas in front of him and sighed tiredly. He was tired and alone and sad and he just wanted to stop being all those things all at once. 

**Sometimes that's just how life goes. Please at least tell me it's good ice cream not the cheap stuff from the grocery store.**

This was met with another picture. This time it was clear that the carton of ice cream was Häagen-Dazs. Now _that_ Steve could accept as a good treat for when you're feeling shitty. 

**I'm proud of you, Bucky. And who cares why you're eating it? You're an independent man living on your own and you can do what you want.** Steve felt like a goof for writing the words, but he was _right_. He knew he was. 

**You're right. You're fucking right, Steve.**

He then texted again. **What are YOU doing awake at this hour?**

Steve decided to, _fuck it_ , and sent Bucky a picture of the unfinished canvas he had before him. He wrote: **Trying to paint. I forgot what I was even going for.**

 **Pretty building looking pretty?** Bucky texted back and Steve could almost _felt_ his sheepishness. The blonde smiled warmly and stared back at the canvas for a moment. 

Steve picked up a paint brush again and continued to work on the canvas. He was lost this way, completely engrossed in what he was making, for at least twenty minutes before Bucky texted him again. 

**You left me to spend some quality time with your canvas? At least warn a guy when you're gonna ditch him.**

Steve jumped in surprise when he felt the phone vibrate on his lap. He stashed his brush _somewhere_ and picked up the phone. He tried not to laugh and typed a quick reply. 

**Sorry. I sorta forgot you can't actually SEE me working. Do you still need me to keep you company or have you accepted the ice scream as a decent companion?**

**Ha-ha-ha. Guess you leave me no choice. I don't want to crush your muse. You need to send me a picture of the finished product, tho. At least let me see what you're ditching me for ;)**

**Sure thing, Bucky.** Steve wasn't even sure why he had immediately answered that. He never showed his art to anyone so quickly. He usually stared at it for at least a month before he decided if it was worthy of showing to another pair of eyes. Peggy was the only person who had ever seen his art while it was a work in progress and not completed. It seemed now she would not be the only one who had that privilege.

**\- - -**

About two months and a half were spent in that fashion. Steve would randomly text Bucky or vice versa and things would just go on from there. It was nice, probably nicer than it should have been. Steve tried to shrug it off, pretend it was _normal_ , but Sam always found a way to make fun of him for it. Truth be told, Steve was pretty sure Sam was happy he was talking with _someone_ at the very least. He insisted Steve could be getting cat-fished, but Steve had never even seen _one_ picture of Bucky so there was no deceit. It was just whatever it _was_.

At the moment, Sam and Steve were at the grocery store. Sam had a huge party planned (where he insisted Steve should bring some of his newer pieces that were actually turning out pretty decent) and they were currently in the process of buying all the food. Sam insisted on cooking even though it was an obscene amount of people that were going to his place. Steve wasn't even pretending to be helpful. He was absently pushing the cart while he focused on texting Bucky. 

**Was the fam as excited as you were about you going back home?**

**YES! Becca was ecstatic. Ma' and Pa' were too. I missed them so much, Steve!**

**I noticed. You only texted incessantly about them for a week straight.**

**Punk. They're my family! Can't a guy love his family?**

**Of course. I'm just saying you were over the moon 'bout it and made sure I knew you were over the moon.**

The reply to this, of course, was: **Punk**

"How's your boyfriend?" Sam asked, making Steve jump in surprise. He looked up from the screen of his phone and nearly crashed the cart into his friend. He stopped the cart just in time. Sam looked at him, bemused, and then turned back to the assortment of spices he was looking at. 

"Bucky is not my boyfriend. He's my friend. He's happy. He went over to visit his parents, so he was happy about that," Steve answered defensively, shoving his phone into one of his pockets for a moment. 

"A friend who tells you he's going to visits his parents and tells you pretty much about any important event going on in his life?" 

"Don't I do that with you? Isn't that the _point_ of having a friend?" Steve raised a perfect blonde eyebrow at Sam challengingly and the other man simply rolled his eyes. 

"Whatever you say, Steve. I say that at this point you two should meet. At the very least you should know if you live in the same _state_ ," Sam said, grabbing some specific spices and giving the cart a gentle pull. 

"He doesn't want to say and I'm not going to press him on the matter, Sam. He's entitled to his privacy," Steve said stubbornly, hands tightening on the handle of the cart. 

"Don't give me that look, Steve. You know I don't have a problem with you talking with Bucky. It's been good for you. Honest. I just don't want you to get attached to a person that might not be who they say they are," Sam said gently, trying to reason with the blonde. There was no way to reason with Steve. He should have known it, but still he persisted in trying to change the unchangeable. 

"He just as easily could feel the same about me, Sam. Why are you trying to complicate things? Talking with him is easy, Sam. Easier than it’s been for me to do with someone else in a long time. I'm just enjoying it while it lasts. Now can we focus on what you need to buy?" 

In that manner, the topic was dropped. The two friends resumed their grocery shopping. Steve still felt like he'd won the argument.

**\- - -**

December came up to greet Steve. He'd officially been texting with Bucky for about four months total. Bucky, as a matter of fact, was back visiting his family once more and was overjoyed. He planned on spending Christmas with his family and then returning home. He'd been incredibly happy the whole time leading up to it. Steve couldn't help but find it adorable.

Steve lay on his bed with Echo by his side and with a tablet in his hands when he heard his phone chirp with a text. It was a picture of a pie. 

**HAVE YOU EVER SEEN A MORE PERFECT CHERRY PIE IN YOUR LIFE, STEVE? <3 **

It really did look delicious. It had been baked to perfection and made Steve hungry all of a sudden. **Save me a piece?**

Bucky then proceeded to send Steve a picture of a slice of pie in a separate plate. Even the way it was served looked perfect. **Consider this piece saved just for you.**

 **What does a guy gotta do to actually get a taste of that pie? I want some of that pie, Bucky.** Steve replied easily. 

**You just gotta butter up the gorgeous woman who made it. I'm sure you could sweet talk her.** Then Bucky did something Steve never expected him to: he sent him a picture of his mom. 

Steve stared at the picture in awe for a couple of seconds. He never doubted, not for a moment, that it was an actual picture of Bucky's mom. He _knew_ it was. He knew it as clearly as he knew that Bucky had never lied to him about anything. Steve had that much _faith_ in the other man. Then, as he stared at the picture, he wondered if Bucky looked at all like his mother. He was curious about this because Bucky had not been joking when he'd called his mom gorgeous. The woman was beautiful, frozen forever in the picture in a laugh and with cheeks burning red. Steve then wondered if the woman even knew of his existence. 

**Count me in. I must speak to that beautiful woman. Is she opposed to welcoming blonde, mildly well-off artists, into her home? Maybe I could paint something nice for her? ;)**

Bucky's reply came a few minutes later. Steve was worried he had said something that bothered Bucky, but his fears dissipated when he read the words. **She says she's always dreamt of a family portrait, but accepts any other method of payment if it involves her son meeting the stranger he's been talking to ;)**

Then a quick message followed. **Yes. I may or may not have mentioned you to her before.**

**She looks like a sweetheart, Bucky. I hope you continue having a nice time with the fam :)**

**Thanks, Steve.**

Steve smiled sadly and put his phone on silent before grabbing one of his pillows and hugging it to his chest. He no longer felt like drawing. He closed his eyes and before he knew it, he was fast asleep.

**\- - -**

About a week passed before Steve texted Bucky. He wasn't sure _why_ he hadn't texted earlier, he hadn't been extremely busy, but it reached the point where he worried if he'd said something to upset Bucky. It was ridiculous. He knew there wasn't anything he'd said that was _wrong_ , but the fear plagued him until he decided to man up and just text Bucky.

 **Hey, Buck**

When a reply did not come immediately, Steve tried to brush it off. The other man was probably busy. It _was_ a week day and he was probably at work. It was probably nothing. Steve had no reason to over react. To convince himself further of this, Steve made a point of slipping the phone into his pocket and trying to do something productive with his day. 

What he managed to do to get his mind away from the fact that Bucky hadn't replied were quite a few things. He first went to take Echo out on a walk. Afterwards, he decided to tidy up his apartment. He vacuumed, moped, cleaned the bathroom, cleaned the kitchen, and organized his closet. Everything. He did everything fucking imaginable. Nothing worked. He kept thinking that Bucky hadn't replied to his text and he either must have been angry or something had happened to him. The second thought made Steve feel sick. If something had happened to Bucky. . . He did not even want to _think_ about it. 

By the time midnight came along, Steve had sent Bucky around thirty text messages which all displayed different levels of distress. He was just about ready to call Sam and vent out all his worry when his phone rang. It was a phone call, an actual _call_ , from Bucky. Steve picked it up without even thinking about it twice. 

"Please tell me you're okay, Bucky," Steve said desperately, hand clutching the phone tighter than he should have. 

What did the bastard do? He went and ignored what Steve said. "You sound different from what I had imagined." 

"Well then imagine this: I'm pissed the fuck off. What happened? Why haven't you answered my texts and how the fuck can you be so chill right now? You've almost gone and given me a heart attack. You made me feel like I was a kid again with a shitty heart that was ready to give up on me." Steve's words all tumbled out without his consent. He was happy. He was angry. He was relieved. He was offended at Bucky's careless air. He loved it. He hated the silence. He loved the sound of Bucky's voice. 

"I've given this close thought and I think we should meet." The jerk went ahead and ignored Steve once more. Steve was about to burst. 

"Just tell me if you're fucking okay, Bucky. Can you answer the fucking question for once?" Steve asked, agitated. He ran a hand through his blonde locks and tried to remind himself that everything was fine. Everything was under control. Bucky wasn't dead. Bucky wasn't dead. He didn't even want to think what would have been of himself if that possibility had become a reality. The fact was that he wasn't _ready_ to lose _anybody_ else. 

"Steve, breathe. I'm fine. Firstly, I didn't have any signal in the middle of the forest with my family and then I ran out of battery in the middle of the forest and we weren't going to return soon so the phone was dead for hours." 

"The forest? What the hell were you doing in the forest? Your family leaves near a forest?" Steve was just blabbering by that point. He was now lost in the high of actually _hearing_ Bucky and his heart was trying to settle back into its normal pace. 

"We like camping and hiking. The drive to the forest is an hour long, but it's well worth it. Why do you sound so surprised? I thought you were an ‘out-doors’ kinda guy considering how much you like to paint mountains and lakes." Bucky sounded so calm, so in control. Steve felt like he was about to become an indiscernible puddle on the floor. He needed to get a grip, but couldn't manage to do so. 

"Okay," Steve managed to say, trying to sound in control of himself. 

Bucky, on the other hand, seemed to have made it his mission to make Steve have heart failure on this first voiced conversation of theirs. "Who were you really trying to text when I first received your messages?"

The question was like a stab in the heart. Steve felt his gut twist and choked on his reply. He could only mutter one word: her name. "Peggy."

"Is Peggy dead, Stevie?"

Steve's world felt like it was shattering. "Yes. She'd been dead for over a year when you got my drunken texts." 

Steve heard Bucky release a long and drawn out sigh. It was a while before the other man spoke again. "Shit, Steve. Why didn't you say anything before?" 

"I was trying to _forget_ it, Bucky. She died on the night I was going to propose to her. Does that sound like the sort of thing I want to relive all the time? Well, it's not as if I don't relive it, I do, a lot. That's not the point, Buck." Steve had lost what his point was supposed to have been. Fuck. Why did his first _actual_ conversation with Bucky have to involve talking about his dead girlfriend? This was not at all what he had planned for this conversation. Hell, he hadn't planned for an actual conversation at all. 

"You were going to propose? Holy shit, Stevie. Now I feel like shit. Fuck." The other man seemed to be struggling, for once, to choose his words. At least now Steve could be sure the guy was human. 

"You have no reason to feel like shit. What happened, happened. It's been almost two years, Buck. I started moving on when I started texting you, as strange as that sounds, and," Steve drifted off, running a hand through his hair, and stared up at the ceiling of his room. The blonde no longer felt safe to say just exactly what he thought. Bucky was on the _phone_ with him, he'd probably fuck up and not be able to fix whatever mistake he made. He didn't want the other man to feel overwhelmed or to think Steve was bat-shit crazy. 

"Steve," the other man paused, thought over his words, and powered through, "Have you actually worked through what happened to you? I know this isn't what you wanted to talk about, hell, it wasn't what I planned our first talk to even go like, but it's important. I haven't been texting you just for fun and kicks, I actually _care_ about you, Steve. Don't you think you should see someone to help you sort out your head because of what happened with Peggy? It wasn't a small thing. If you were planning to marry her, were going to propose the night she died, that's some heavy stuff you need to sort out." 

Steve's breath wavered. He felt a strange tightness in his chest and began to feel as if he was about to have an asthma attack. He no longer had asthma attacks. He hadn't had one in _years_. "Why do I feel like you're breaking up with me? Fuck. That sounds insane. We weren't even dating."

Steve was rambling. He knew he was rambling. He couldn't seem to stop. 

"I'm not breaking up with you, Stevie. Shit, it would actually be great news if you said you wanted to go on a _date,_ , but that's not the point. What I'm trying to get at is that I think you still have some feelings you need to sort out. If you want, I could be there for you, in spirit if not body, but you should really see someone. If we're gonna actually give this a _try_ , I'd like to know we both went into it being as in control and _ourselves_ as we can be." 

Steve paused, breath uneven. He was not quite sure how to reply. This whole talk had completely slipped from his fingers and out of his control. He was no longer even sure if he was still awake or if he was hallucinating by this point. So, the blonde opted to changing the topic completely. He needed something else to focus on so he could _think_ later. "Where do you actually live, Buck? Like, not where your family lives, but where you normally spend your days." 

Bucky didn't hesitate before answering and blurted out his address. Steve laughed humorlessly when Bucky's address turned out to be of an apartment building a couple of blocks away from Steve's. Literally a _couple_. Steve would have laughed with mirth if the whole thing hadn't been so insanely absurd. 

"Why are you laughing?" This time Bucky _did_ sound concerned and that cleared up Steve's mind. 

"You live a couple of blocks away from me, Buck." Steve then told Bucky his own address and laughed stupidly at himself. All this time, Steve could have actually talked with Bucky face to face. They could have gone for coffee or run into each other at the grocery store or crossed paths when Steve went on one of his runs in the morning. It was all just a ridiculous _joke_. 

"I guess this means we're both idiots and you're way out of my league. How can you even afford a place in that building? You know what, don't answer that. Let's call it a night. I'll call you tomorrow. Night, Steve," Bucky said, sounding tired, but with a small laugh in his voice. 

"Night, Buck."

**\- - -**

The next morning, Steve had no better understanding on what the hell to do. The guy he'd been texting for months now had just told him he should get professional help, that they lived a couple of blocks away from each other and that he wanted to go out. How was Steve supposed to figure that all out and accept it as fact? It seemed like a daunting task. So, Steve did the only thing that seemed logical: he called Sam.

His best friend seemed relieved to have received the call and was in Steve's apartment fifteen minutes after having hung up on Steve. Sam now sat on Steve's living room couch, Echo on his lap, and was asking Steve a shitton of questions. 

"So, you're telling me Bucky hadn't texted you in a week and you freaked out?" 

"Yeah."

"And you didn't tell me that before because? You know what, don't answer that. Let's move on. You said something about a forest?" 

Steve proceeded to explain the whole predicament with Bucky and his phone dying. 

"And you had never mentioned Peggy before but he brought it up?" 

"Pretty much."

"And he told you to see a professional like I've been telling you to do since Peggy died?" 

"Yeah, and I never said either of you were wrong for recommending that. I just _chose_ to ignore you, Sam."

"When have you ever listened to me?" Sam sighed tiredly, reminiscing about other instances where he wished the blonde would have actually followed his advice. "Don't answer that question. You also mentioned that Bucky lives two blocks away from here? How exactly is it that you didn't know that before? You know what, why the hell didn't you ask him? I _told_ you to ask him! You could have met the guy _at least_ two months ago." 

Steve stared sheepishly at the floor and fumbled with his hands as he tried not to feel like a kid being scolded. Sam wasn't _wrong_. Well, the man hardly ever was. Steve just refused to accept it _out loud_. "I wanted to give Bucky his privacy. The guy 'met' me when I was drunk, Sam. It's not exactly the most graceful or ordinary way to begin a conversation with a guy. Plus, I was _fine_ with keeping things as they were. It didn't seem like he was interested in anything else."

"Steve, of course he was interested. The guy has spent hours of his life _texting you_ ," Sam said exasperated. 

"He might have just needed a friend! I sure as hell did!" Steve exclaimed, growing frustrated. This whole exchange with Sam was _really_ not helping Steve in any sort of way. 

"Let's move on before the need to slap you with the cold truth grows even more intense. You mentioned something about Bucky being interested in going out but only when you were in a mentally stable place?"

"That makes it sound as if I'm unstable. I don't _feel_ unstable." Steve sighed, plopping down on the floor beside the couch Sam sat on. 

"I'm not sayin' that, Steve. You've actually been getting better in the last few months, but you're still not the guy I knew before Peggy died. I remember that Steve and you're slowly crawling back to him, but you're not quite there yet. I know you won't be exactly the same, you can't be, that Steve hadn't felt the loss of Peggy, but you can be happy Steve again. Steve who makes art that blows people away. Steve who is always a disgustingly bright ray of sunshine. Do you understand what I'm trying to say?" 

Steve remained quiet, but nodded at his friend. He didn't really know what to say to that. He knew Sam was right. Steve hadn't felt like himself in what felt like forever. He'd been getting better, truly, but he still felt like a shadow of the Steve that Peggy had known. "I miss her so much, Sam. Sometimes it feels like it was just yesterday that I found out she was gone." 

"And do you seriously think Peggy would have been happy about seeing you like this? She'd want you to move on. You know that as well as I do. Bucky might be your next step, Steve, I don't know. I hope he is. I hope it all works out."

**\- - -**

After three weeks of multiple sessions with a psychologist and after much insistence from Bucky and Sam, Steve made plans to meet up with Bucky. The plans were made just a couple of days prior to the actual meeting and Steve was really nervous. They had chosen New Years as the date of their first meeting because Bucky was back home in his apartment and Steve decided he couldn't procrastinate on the matter any further. He'd waited long enough to meet the guy. He really _wanted_ to meet Bucky. He'd sort of just gotten cold feet about the whole thing because he was scared it would blow up in his face. He wanted things to be perfect which was probably an indicator that the complete opposite would happen.

Steve convinced himself it was too late to back out. He was already dressed, huge canvas under his arm and keys jingling in his hand. He needed to get his ass out of his apartment before he arrived late at Bucky's place. They had decided to meet over at Bucky's place because Steve didn't want to freak Bucky out. His apartment was lush if not entirely extravagant and most of the art pieces lining the walls were expensive. Not only that, his walls still had pictures of Peggy and he that he refused to take down and they also had scattered here and there sketches. All in all, the place was probably overwhelming for anyone the first time they came in. 

Once Steve convinced himself to leave his apartment, it didn't take him long to get to Bucky's place. It seemed like no time at all when Steve stood in front of the apartment door that belonged to Bucky. He shifted his weight uncomfortably from one foot to the other, feeling nervous, and gave a soft knock on the door. It opened seconds later, as if Bucky had been standing by it waiting for Steve's cue. 

Steve's breath caught when he saw the man standing on the other side of the door. He wasn't sure _what_ he had been expecting, but it certainly wasn't what he saw. The man in front of him was _gorgeous_ and he was grinning confidently at Steve like the whole situation was normal. Stormy gray eyes beamed at Steve, bright and just a hint of mischievous, accentuating and legitimizing the smile on his lips. 

Before Steve could even stare at him with even more detail, probably memorize every feature of his face so he could paint it and sketch it and draw it and _everything_ for the rest of his life, Bucky spoke up. "Damn, Stevie. How come you never mentioned you were this hot? I'm sort of pissed at you right now." 

Then Bucky reached out to Steve and dragged him into the apartment with a metal hand. Steve immediately did a double-take and it turned out to be, in fact, a metal hand that dragged him inside. He'd never seen a prosthetic that stunning. It was shiny and sleek and almost elegant. It looked like a piece of art in and of itself. 

"You never said you were part robot," Steve said before he could catch himself. He quickly tried to amend himself, trying not to come off as an asshole, "Sorry. What I meant was—" 

"Don't worry 'bout it, Stevie. Anyway, welcome to my humble abode," Bucky said, motioning to the interior of the apartment. 

Steve glanced around quickly, but found his attention arrested again by Bucky. The man was wearing a well-fitting ( _very_ well-fitting) black sweater with the sleeves pushed slightly up so that his metal arm was in clear sight. Steve couldn't help but look at the prosthetic, he was nearly as stunned by it as he was by the gorgeous man he'd apparently been texting with for months. 

"It's a nice place," Steve said, drawing his eyes away from Bucky's arm, but finding that his face was equally distracting. His eyes kept lingering from Bucky’s eyes, to his lips, to his eyebrows and then his eyelashes and— 

Steve needed to get a grip. Bucky fixed him with another charming grin and Steve was just about ready to melt into a puddle at the other man's feet. 

"Uh, I, uh, brought you something," Steve said and offered up the painting he had made like you would a sacrificial lamb. "I wasn't sure if you would like it, but from what you've said you do like art and—" 

Bucky easily took the canvas from Steve's hands and his eyes widened when he beheld it. He pointed at it with a finger and said, "You made this for me? I can _keep_ this?" 

"Of course, I made it especially for you," Steve said, gaining back some of his confidence. 

"This is incredible! Stevie, wow, seriously. I have—" Bucky drifted off, eyes lingering on the canvas. Steve had specifically painted a landscape of one of the pictures Bucky had sent him when he was with his family. He'd mentioned that it was his favorite spot and it was a _stunning_ view, so Steve, naturally, painted it for him. 

"I'm glad you like it, Buck." The blonde then made a show of offering his hand out for a shake and said, "Steven Grant Rogers, at your service." 

"Holy fuck, I'm an idiot," Bucky blurted out suddenly. He shook off the surprise easily and slid on a smile, "Hi, Steve. I'm James Buchanan Barnes, at your service. My friend Natasha may or may not totally love your art even though she refuses to actually say it. I'm pretty sure she talked to me about Peggy too. . . Was it Margaret 'Peggy' Carter?" 

Steve felt strange hearing the name come from Bucky's lips. I'd been so long since he'd thought of her as anything but just _Peggy_. "Yeah, she was my girlfriend."

"Fuck. I can't believe I didn't make that connection. To be honest, I don't pay attention half of the time when Natasha goes off on her ramblings about art. She mentions so many names. I sort of gave up on paying attention when I noticed the prices of the art from the people she talked about. Hell, she probably knew I was talking to you and she didn't fucking tell me." Bucky smiled painfully at his own words and ran a hand through his dark hair. He cleared his throat and shook his head. He then set the canvas he still held on one hand against a wall and motioned for Steve to sit on the small couch in the tiny living room. 

Steve hesitated for only half a breath before he sat down. He cast yet another glance around the apartment and tried to figure out what his next move should be. For some reason what came out was, "What are your feelings on having a dog as a pet? You never actually mentioned your stance on that matter."

Bucky's laughter at Steve's question was like music to the blonde's ears.

**\- - -**

Only two months later, Steve was pretty sure he had lost his dog to Bucky Barnes. The small furry creature was completely taken in by Bucky. Steve was sure Echo would run off with Bucky one day soon. It was really getting out of hand. It was _his dog_. . . But then his eyes fell on the pair of them. Bucky lay comfortably on Steve's couch, flesh hand absently petting Echo while the dog bit at Bucky's metal fingers (an act that was strictly forbidden. Bucky had been trying to keep his metal fingers away from the dog for at least fifteen minutes).

Steve sat on the kitchen counter, looking over at where Bucky lay, and absently sketched away in a notebook. He'd already made about thirty drawings of the man. He knew he should have been ashamed at that amount of art in such a short amount of time, but he couldn't manage to feel the emotion. Everything about James Buchanan Barnes was perfect and worthy of drawing. The brunette was well aware of what Steve was doing and tried to remain as still as possible. It wasn't working out when Echo insisted on chewing on his prosthetic. 

"Why does your dog insist on believing that my one metal limb is a toy? It's not even soft or chewy," Bucky said, eyes dragging over to where Steve sat. 

The blonde shrugged, eyes focusing on Bucky's hands which were now _both_ petting the dog. Echo looked to have reached another level of insurmountable bliss. The dog had his tongue hanging out, breathing slightly rapidly, and his eyes were squinted shut. It was obscenely cute. Steve wanted to throw himself into a tight embrace with the two of them. He actively restrained himself from doing such a thing. 

Echo then jumped onto his paws and walked over to Bucky's face and began to lick him excitedly. . . There went Steve's drawing. It would remain incomplete 'till the end of time. What Steve could not erase, though, was the sound of Bucky's laugh as he was attacked by kisses from the dog. 

"Traitor!" Steve called out to the dog who had the _audacity_ to turn his cute little furry face in the blonde's direction and smile stupidly. Steve hated (loved) the face of his adorable traitorous pet. 

"Are you done sketching? I thought I came over here so we could watch a _movie_ , not so that I would serve as your _unpaid_ model," Bucky said, casting a glance in Steve's direction. 

Steve slapped his sketch pad onto the kitchen table and walked over to the living room couch. He promptly shoved Bucky's legs aside so he could sit down and snatched Echo from Bucky's grasp. Bucky grumbled something under his breath and shifted so that his head lay on Steve's lap. Just for the fun of it, Steve plopped the dog down onto Bucky's face. The blonde swore the two of them yelped and then both fell onto the floor. 

Steve cracked up laughing and picked up the remote for the TV. The movie had already been set up so it had sat there waiting for Steve or Bucky to play it for about half an hour. Nonchalantly, Steve hit play and settled comfortably on the couch. Bucky sent Steve a glare the blonde easily ignored and then took up his position once again, head on Steve's lap. The blonde grinned contentedly and began to run his fingers through Bucky's long dark locks while the movie started.

**THE END**

**Author's Note:**

> I never mention this in the fic, but I imagined Bucky and Sam to be veterans. Idk. Do with that information what you will.


End file.
